


Refuge

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-12-01 01:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11475540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: A safe space is a great place.





	Refuge

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

They succeeded in living together not because it wasn't hard -- and certainly not because there weren't any problems -- but because over time the compromises came.  They learned to split the space more evenly without sacrificing square footage, giving ground without cutting corners.  They accepted the minor quirks and gradually conceded on larger adjustments, arranging the space in a way that suited both their needs and tastes satisfactorily, if not perfectly.  By virtue of its serenity, however, it became perfect, a familiar, expected, comforting thing.  It was full of them, and even though the square footage was still pitiful and there were plenty of challenges yet to overcome, they loved it because it was theirs.

Unlocking the door and stepping over the threshold, soaked to the skin with the first heavy snow of the season and wishing that they had a fireplace that he could curl up in front of it until feeling returned to his hands, Blaine peeled off his overcoat and scarf and deposited them on the nearest hanger with a cough.  His slush-covered boots resisted his frozen fingers' efforts for several long, trying moments, fatigue making him stupid.  Dreading Kurt's response as he did his best to keep the mess on the scant rug at the door, he managed to untangle himself at last, staggering off toward the bedroom with another heaving cough.

He'd been able hold it together long enough to finish his last final of the day, even though he doubted half of his scribbled responses were legible.  After three weeks of intensive studying, he would have been appalled at the degree of unconcern that accompanied his answers had he not had more pressing concerns.  As it had been, the pressure building behind his sinuses had been reaching an agonizing pitch, preventing him from focusing on anything other than finishing as soon as humanly possible in order to leave in the same fashion.

Unfortunately for him, the subway ride home had been a difficult and tedious affair, as per its usual standard.  Even the lure of four weeks of freedom hadn't been enough to completely override the misery crowding his senses.  By the time he had stepped out onto the streets again, it was nearing dark, and getting home had dangled before him as the sole hope for relief.

Dumping half of his clothes into the laundry basket near the tiny broom closet at the end of the hall, Blaine squeezed into the equally tiny bathroom and stared glumly at his own reflection in the mirror.  His gray undershirt and black pants did little to hide the stress lines etched into his skin, a byproduct of too much studying and not much else.  Whereas Kurt ambled about the apartment munching on apples and picking over his work, Blaine tended to sit in one place for hours, studying until even the smell of food nauseated him because _oh God I'm going to fail_.  It was only through gentle nudging that Kurt could even get him to pick over his meals, preferring to drink three cups of coffee a day to get by.

It wasn't healthy, and appeasing his conscience with more time at the gym to compensate was also, retrospectively, unhealthy.  Examining the stark evidence of his own unwellness did nothing for his mood, however, and so Blaine turned on the shower and waited for the temperature to climb from tepid to lukewarm, shimmying out of the remainder of his clothes as he did so.

Even here in this tiny space that meant bumping elbows in the morning and, on more hectic occasions, smacking into opened doors, their choices intermingled.  The ratty blue bathrobe hanging on the wall was Kurt's; the gel products on the counter were Blaine's; and the toothbrushes belonged to both of them, even though only one had found its proper home in the holder.  Stepping under the shower spray once assured that it wouldn't scald him, Blaine worked on scrubbing out the gel with his own shampoos before taking a dollop of Kurt's and working it through more slowly.  He knew that Kurt wouldn't mind. Indeed, he knew from the way that Kurt lingered near him and pressed a kiss to his curls instead of his cheek that it did the same heart-skipping thing that seeing Kurt in his hoodies did to Blaine.

Although he might have lingered indulgently in a healthier state, Blaine shut off the water as soon as he'd finished with his hair, shivering as he reached for a spare towel.  Drying off as quickly as he could, he shrugged into Kurt's bathrobe -- in for a penny, in for a pound -- and wandered back into the bedroom.

Picking out his warmest, comfiest pair of pajamas, he pulled them on and shivered with delight and relief as he crawled under the covers.  It didn't matter that it was scarcely five and Kurt wasn't even home yet; his head barely touched the pillow before he was asleep.

There was a delicious smell in the air when he awoke, blinking groggily at the soft Christmas sweater under his cheek.  The smell -- sharp but sweet, cinnamon-like -- punctured his sleep-hazy senses, drawing him away from half-formed dreams.  He pressed his cheek against Kurt's belly, waiting for some of the throbbing in his head to ease as he listened to him crunch delicately on a cookie.

"How long have you been home?" he asked at last, voice thick and slightly raspy.

"A while," Kurt said, reaching over and scratching the base of his neck lightly.  Blaine melted against him, not saying anything for a long time in the hopes that Kurt would continue indefinitely.

The crunching carried on for a few more minutes, interspersed with light dialogue that Blaine recognized from an old episode of Friends.  He wanted to ask specifics about Kurt's day -- and apologize for the lack of dinner; it was his night to cook -- but it was easier to simply lay there and let Kurt rake his fingers over his hair, lulled by the simple rhythm.

At last, however, a deep, racking cough dragged him away from his pleasant reverie.  Kurt's hand stilled for a moment before switching to slow circles against the middle of his back, undaunted.  "Ugh, I'm sorry," he mumbled, sniffing as he pressed his cheek against Kurt's sweater.  "I'm all stuffy and gross."

"You're not gross; you're sick, honey," Kurt assured, leaning over a little to grab something off the nightstand.  "And in anticipation of your stuffiness, I picked up some more cold medicine on my way home."

"How did you--"

"I'm psychic," Kurt reminded.  Encouraging him to sit up, he added with a shrug, "Your nose was red this morning." Blaine took the bottle of water and pills that Kurt handed him, draining a humble fraction of the water before passing the bottle back and curling up against Kurt's chest again.  "Do you want another blanket?"

Blaine shook his head against Kurt's sweater, reaching up to curl a hand in it as his eyelids slid shut.  "How are you so perfect?"

"I'm not," Kurt said, amused, before adding, "I mean, I could be, but in moments of weakness I make gingerbread cookies for dinner."  Reaching up to rub Blaine's head again, he asked, "Do you want anything to eat?  I can make you some soup."

Blaine shook his head again, tightening his grip around Kurt's sweater a little.  "No, no, I'm good," he murmured.  "Just kind of -- sleepy.  And stuffy."

"You can sleep," Kurt assured.

"I don't want to sleep."

"B."

"I just want to stay with you."

Amused, Kurt promised, "I won't leave you."

Blaine might have argued the point further, but his hesitance lingered and distilled, first into quiet confusion, and finally into dreams.

True to his word, Kurt was always there when he awoke.  Blaine didn't know how he spent the hours between -- waking up in the middle of the night, he found Kurt deeply asleep at his side, but otherwise he was awake and engaged in some task or another, writing or reading or watching TV -- but he was grateful for the companionship.  He was also grateful for the crackers and juice that Kurt pressed upon him and even more so for the intermittent replenishment of cold medicine, dopey though it made him.  With Kurt at his side, he didn't need to worry about anything else, and passing the time in a medicine induced stupor was preferable to the alternative.

He got sicker before he got better, recalling in bits and pieces one particular night in which neither of them seemed to get any sleep at all.  Hunched over his own stomach and coughing harshly into a pillow, he sucked down air between heaves, willing the fits to pass as he shivered.  Despite the temptation of a clean, uncontaminated couch to sleep on a humble distance away, Kurt stayed with him, his voice gentle as he urged him to take a sip of water every so often, his hands steady as he rubbed Blaine's back.  It didn't matter how much time passed; Kurt's patience never wavered, his tone pure condolence, aching with shared pain.  Rallying his own strength, Blaine even tried to convince him to leave, to sleep, but Kurt refused, wanting, insisting on abating his pain.

Gradually, though, he got better.  He was still snuffly and slightly pale on outings to local coffee shops for a week after, and the cough lingered another two, persisting despite Kurt's most spirited attempts to eradicate it with various teas and other remedies.  He lost more weight, to Kurt's and, a lesser degree, his own chagrin, but he rebounded slowly over the holidays, piling on the sweets that he hadn't indulged in weeks due to finals.  Overall, his good health returned, not all at once as he had hoped, but in steady increments, until he looked and felt even better than he had before November had arrived.

And when he awoke in the middle of the night and saw the other side of the bed abandoned, he slid out from under the sheets and followed his bleary senses to the bathroom where Kurt, trembling faintly, sat on the floor, sagging against the tub.

Without a word, he returned to the bedroom, grabbed a spare blanket, and brought it back with him as he sat down on the floor beside him, pulling Kurt gently into his embrace.

"B," Kurt began, the hint of protest already clear even underneath the exhaustion.

Kissing the top of his head and humming, Blaine tucked the blanket around him properly and said simply, "I won't leave you."

Kurt sagged against him with a barely audible sigh, leaning against his strength, gratitude palpable.

Even though they'd had to make concessions over the years about living in the same apartment, Blaine was happy to say that taking care of each other had never been one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


End file.
